


Going to Love You With My Hands Tied

by sablier_bloque



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Community: help_haiti, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:36:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sablier_bloque/pseuds/sablier_bloque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series. Stefan ran to Venice years ago to escape Damon and their life of bloodlust and debauchery. Running from Damon isn't that easy though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going to Love You With My Hands Tied

**Author's Note:**

> This is my help_haiti fic for simplelyric who wanted a pre-series Damon/Stefan at Karnivale in Venice, Italy. A million thanks to autumn_lilacs* for a speedy and fantastic beta. Title from Lady Gaga's "Teeth."

Stefan hasn’t seen Damon in ten years. He is in Venice now, has been for a few years; but it was Paris before that, London before that, New York… a lot of place. Places without Damon. Places where he could think of something besides blood and his brother.

It’s not surprising to hear Damon’s name whispered in the wind, discussed by the Venetian aristocracy. A reunion with Damon has always been inevitable. He has spent every day watching his back, waiting for his older brother to spring up on him at any moment.

Damon’s presence means remembering Katherine, the thirst for blood, and an unquenchable thirst for his brother.

It shouldn’t be a shock to finally cross paths with Damon _here_. It’s dark, the night before Ash Wednesday, and Stefan is the reluctant guest of a _Karnivale_ Masquerade. Stefan hears Damon’s laughter before he even sees him – perhaps it sounds sincere to the other guests but its sounds harsh and fake to Stefan who remembers how the human Damon Salvatore sounded when they were children. His laughter is like a knife to the chest. It’s a cold trickle down his spine, and yes, it shouldn’t be a shock, but it is.

He hears a high, feminine squeal of “ _Damon!_ ” before Stefan decides it is time to head home.

He leaves without a goodbye to his hostess, only keeping the traditional _Karnivale_ mask on his face because he would look odd without it tonight. Stefan was never the one who wanted to attract attention.

His home isn’t too far away, pressed against a vein-thin canal that only small boats are able to easily navigate. Out of habit, he feigns humanity by bringing his coat closer to his body. He is good at pretending; make the lungs move to breathe, stand next to fires as much as possible to keep the skin warm. He and Damon learned together so that they could lure innocent victims into their silky-threaded webs.

But that was before. Now he’s just trying to not be found out.

“It’s a good night for Fat Tuesday, is it not?”

Stefan stops as though he has hit a stone wall. Even if he didn’t know that voice, and had never heard it panting in his ear while Stefan’s hand was gripping Damon’s dick, he still would have recognized the lack of heartbeat and the scent of pine and summers in Virginia that Damon has never been able to lose.

Stefan turns around. Even with the dark mask around his eyes, Damon is unmistakable. His smirk lacks the naive mischievousness from when they were younger. It’s a little darker now; that mouth has sucked too many necks dry to remain innocent.

 _That’s right_ , Stefan thinks. _Keep reminding yourself who Damon really is_.

“I suppose,” Stefan finally answers. He watches Damon’s eyes move over his body, checking for any changes since they’ve last seen each other. Stefan’s hair is maybe a little shorter, but what else can change when death is never an option?

“And a fabulous masquerade too, which is always my favorite part: not knowing who anyone is,” Damon says as he takes a few steps closer. He is without a coat, despite the chill and despite the fact that any human would be wearing one right now. His white shirt is opened at the neck, and Stefan can see the beginning of his collarbones through the open V.

“It adds a little mystery, doesn’t it? You and I, complete strangers, talking on the streets of Venice, and we’ll never know who the other one is as long as we keep these on.” Damon taps his own mask.

Stefan’s mouth drops slightly, unable to believe that Damon doesn’t seriously _recognize him_.

“I’m done for the evening,” Stefan replies. “I was just leaving the party.”

“I can see that. But why?” Damon steps forward, landing a foot away from Stefan. “It’s good company, yes?”

Stefan’s jaw clenches before speaking. “That’s debatable.”

Damon looks around him, his eyes landing on Stefan again. “I see no one objectionable.”

Stefan presses his hand against Damon’s chest to move past him, only making it a couple of steps before Damon grabs his hand and pulls him into a dark and narrow alleyway nearby.

Damon’s fingers trace the edge of Stefan’s coat, but Stefan grabs his hand.

“I’m not doing this.”

“C’mon,” Damon whispers. “You don’t even know who I am, and we’re out here in the open too.” He leans closer to Stefan’s ear. “It’s dangerous.”

Damon used to tell him that all the time. They used to hunt for blood in the scariest and most revealing situations because it was _dangerous_. Because Damon loved the thrill of getting caught.

“Are you scared?” Damon asks, and Stefan is surprised by the flood of relief that courses through his body when he realizes it’s all for show. Damon knows him; he will always know him. This is just another game.

“Of you?”

Damon smiles. “You should be.”

Stefan shrugs, a grin threatening to pull at the corners of his mouth. “You look harmless enough.”

Damon’s head falls back with a laugh, his pale throat bright against the dark night. Suddenly the only thing Stefan can think of is how many times he has pierced the skin and tasted that throat and how many times he’s shared the blood that his brother stole from innocent, and sometimes the not so innocent, humans.

When Damon tilts his head back down, his eyes beneath the mask are dark and his fangs press against his bottom lip. There is so much hunger in his eyes that Stefan trembles slightly.

It all happens so fast. Damon’s hands are on Stefan’s dick before he can even think about protesting. It has been so damn long and it feels so damn good that he just lets it happen. Damon twists his wrist on the upstroke and presses his thumb against the slit. Stefan’s mind is almost whiting-out with pleasure and want and—

“I’ve missed you so much,” Damon whispers, voice hoarse, and he’s breaking character, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Damon is the bad boy without care or regard for anyone else except for himself and Stefan. Only Stefan sees him like this. “I looked everywhere for you. I didn’t think you’d actually leave the country.”

Stefan’s hands are moving of their own accord, unbuttoning Damon’s trousers and plunging his hand into his pants. His hand grips Damon’s cock so tightly it probably hurts a bit, and begins to stroke him. The cry that Damon release sounds so desperate, and it washes over Stefan’s skin, makes him shudder with want.

He can’t believe that they’re here together, that they’re touching each other like they have since they were just teenagers. Back then each caress was filled with awe and affection and wonderment. Now, there’s no kissing, or soft fingertips gliding over chests and stomachs. It’s just getting off, touching each other roughly and angrily. And it is stupid but the masks make it anonymous. The masks take the history out of the equation and just leave them as two strangers getting their jollies on Fat Tuesday.

Except Damon whispers, “Stefan” against his throat, body arching against Stefan’s as he comes. Damon pierces his skin to drink from him, and Stefan spills hotly over Damon’s hand as he feels Damon lick at the teeth marks he just created. The pain intensifies the pleasure and he leans against the wall to balance himself as he cries out.

“You taste weak,” Damon says, bringing his thumb to the bite before pressing against his own mouth and licking. “And dirty.”

Stefan looks down. “I’m done with humans.”

Damon cleans them up, fixing their trousers and licking the remaining blood off of Stefan’s neck as it heals. He touches Stefan’s face. “That’s no good, little brother. Look at you. You can’t even take care of yourself.”

Damon takes off his own mask and runs his fingers through his dark hair to try to get it back to normal. It’s funny how Stefan had almost forgotten how truly beautiful his brother is. He looks cold and untouchable, with eyes the color of the icy, north Atlantic and unforgiving smirk.

“America isn’t the same without you,” Damon says.

“I think you will survive.”

“It’s not a question of me surviving. It’s a question of you surviving off that filth that you’re drinking.”

Stefan walks back onto the street and heads toward his house when he hears Damon following him.

“Goodnight, Damon.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me what you’re giving up for Lent?”

It’s such a ridiculous question that Stefan can’t help but roll his eyes.

“You.”

“You’ve been without me for years, Stefan. But I will come back in forty days if that’s your wish.”

Stefan stops at the steps to his house. He turns and sees that Damon is only inches away from him. “You do that.”

Damon leans forward and presses a kiss to his neck. “I will.” He turns away and takes a step. “I’ll be back on Easter.”

Stefan should put his belongings in his trunk and run to Athens or Valencia; get a 40-day head start on Damon. He wakes up the next morning, though, and doesn't pack a thing.


End file.
